


Happened So Fast

by CaptainErica



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, French summer house, Slow Burn, Very Very Slow Burn, summer friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:21:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27016456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainErica/pseuds/CaptainErica
Summary: Draco Malfoy has a comfortable yet structured childhood. Summers are spent on the beach in France at his family home there, the rest of the year at the Manor in Wiltshire. It's lonely, though Draco doesn't really recognize that. Hermione is a bright fresh of air in his stable and insular life; his 2 week friend every summer just after his birthday. A thoroughly strange French girl, Draco thinks she is, though incredibly smart and exciting.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 2
Kudos: 48





	Happened So Fast

It was the Tuesday after his birthday when the gentle sounds of the ocean and the beach called Draco Malfoy down to the sand. He was young enough that his mother stayed nearby; old enough that ‘nearby’ now meant the patio under the umbrella instead of right beside him.

The beach house was smaller than the Manor, but that was what Draco liked about it. He never felt alone when they were in France, or he felt _less_ alone than he did at the manor. It was both wonderful and terribly boring to be an only child, and Draco had just started to really feel that loneliness in a way he could understand this year. They never met up with people when they were in France because they were supposed to be spending time as a family when they were there.

This was fine, of course, because Draco loved his family, and all the way until today it was quite enough to keep him entertained. But he was 6 years old now, quite capable of wandering about by himself, and quite interested in doing so. His want of companions was, at that age and especially that specific Tuesday, growing rather strong.

Stood at the bottom of the short stairs leading to the beach from the patio of their little beach house, Draco paused and stared out at the water. Everything was still exciting and new at that age, everything still bright and wonderous to behold… Of course he was a child, so his attention was only briefly held before he was distracted again. This time, however, it was a little girl who caught his attention.

Halted a few more steps from the bottom of the staircase Draco watched as a young girl, probably about his age with her brown hair pulled into a braid, walked across the beach from the _muggle_ side of the beach. She stayed close to the water, eyes down as she walked; probably counting her steps or looking for seashells.

“There aren’t any shells here.” He heard himself say in French. He had hurried closer while she walked, slow and even, down the beach. “There never are.” He added when she looked up at him, paused mid-step.

There was a frown on her face, and he wondered if it was his French at first, but then she shook her head and turned toward him with her feet planted firmly in the sand. “That sounds false.” She said, her French slightly accented, though Draco knew very little about accents and even less about those specific to French speakers.

“Mother says they get picked up, in the middle of the night.” Draco said, not sure he liked how she didn’t believe him immediately. She had sounded rather tart about it, like she wasn’t willing to trust him.

The girl frowned, then tilted her head. “I suppose that makes sense.” She said, and Draco thought he could see it all clicking in her brain; someone found the shells, cleaned them, brought them to a shop somewhere to be sold… “Are you walking?” She asked, and Draco blinked, remembered his manners, and nodded.

“We can walk together?” Draco asked, the lilt to his French a little more aristocratic now that he had remembered his manners. The girl nodded, only a small quirk to her expression belying that maybe something was odd about how he spoke.

They walked a short distance together, talking about nothing important, before the girl had them turn around. “I have to find shells, for my mother.” She said, an explanation. Draco nodded, thinking it a rather foolish thing to do but being 6 he knew very little about what foolish meant, just that it was a word his father used when people were talking about things that seemed to match with the girl’s search for shells on a shell-less shoreline.

She said goodbye at the water’s edge, just almost exactly where he had stopped her earlier, and then she went on and passed through the barrier between the muggle side of the beach and the wizard side, and disappeared from view. Draco watched the barrier for a while, before his mother looked down at him over her book from her place on the patio.

“Draco, darling, come up and have lunch, would you?”

On Thursday, Draco learned that the girl’s name was Hermione, and he told her his name, full and important like his father had taught him. Hermione had smiled, easy as anything, and told him his name did not sound very French, before she laughed and talked to him about the small waves lapping against their feet.

“Your name isn’t very French either.” He had said, a little sullen, and Hermione had grinned at him and told him in slightly stilted French that her name was fun and special and that she thought his must be as well.

Draco saw Hermione 3 more times that summer, before she stopped walking down the beach and stopping in front of their steps.

At 7, Draco had almost forgotten about Hermione, the girl he had talked with in French the summer before. She almost seemed like a dream he had had; a bright French girl whose skin got darker as time had worn on out on the beach. Disappearing into the muggle side of the beach like it was nothing despite her age was odd and definitely made it easy for Draco to think she wasn’t real; no one _he_ knew, went to the muggle side of the beach.

She was there this year, though, every morning while his mother read a book on the patio and his father was doing business inside. Every day for 2 weeks he had a friend to wander along the edge of the water with for an hour or so before she remembered her family and said goodbye.

“What books have you been reading?” She asked one of those mornings as they sat in the sand, digging out a little moat for their lopsided castle. “I read _Madeline_ last week.” She added, eager.

Reading was new for them, reading more than the simplest of books. Her excitement made quite a lot of sense to Draco because of this. Unfortunately, Draco did not know who Madeline was, or what kind of book it must be. He didn’t want to admit that, though, gently unwilling like it would hurt his pride to say that. “Oh? Did you like it?” He asked, as though he were reserving judgment. “I finished _Fairy Flight_ the other night.” He said, rather proud of that fact because his mother said it was a rather difficult book and she had been very proud of him.

“I’ve never heard of _that_ book.” She said, stopping in her digging to look over at him, her brown hair frizzing out of the tight braid she always had it in. “Is it French? I will have to find it…” She said, and Draco was rather excited now because it was _not_ in French.

“It’s in English.” He had said, with an amount of pomposity that only a 7-year-old who had grown up with a _lot_ of privilege could manage. Hermione had looked very impressed by that, and Draco continued to feel very pleased with himself.

After she left him, he walked up to his mother and told her that he absolutely _must_ get a new book that his friend had read. His mother had looked at him, mild and assessing, before she agreed and took him out to find it.

Draco learned that it was a muggle book because the shopkeeper had raised an eyebrow at them, clearly surprised that Narcissa Malfoy was looking for _that_ book, and then pointed to a small section to the left of the counter that was clearly marked out as carrying muggle books. Narcissa bought him a few books on the shelf that matched the level of _Madeline_ , before also purchasing him a more acceptable wizarding book.

“Your father won’t know the difference.” His mother had said, brisk, as they left the book shop and headed back down the street. Draco didn’t really mind that they were muggle books; if Hermione was reading this book, _these books_ then they must be good, smart.

He read them all, pleased that most were in English as his French was far better spoken than read. He read _Madeline_ in French, though, since it was all they had. He told Hermione the following day that he was reading a new book, and Hermione told him about the new book she was reading and in short order this became more important than whatever little activity they did while together.

They spoke until she stopped coming by… gone home, he knew now, or understood now, she said goodbye before she left this time. They spoke about books and reading and things that their parents read them. Hermione seemed to find the names of some of his books to be funny, but hers weren’t all that much better, he would argue. He was, as he had been the year before, sad when she left the final time that summer.

The summer after Draco turned 8 years old was much the same as all summers before. His parents packed him up for their summer house in June, and they stayed through the summer months, returning to England come August. The biggest difference, however, was that he spent a good few weeks before arrival making sure he had a list of all the books he had read the past year; he had to make sure that Hermione hadn’t read more than him, obviously.

At 8, going on 9, Hermione was taller than him. It wasn’t by much, but he noticed it, said something to her about it. Her accented French, something he noticed more now than he had in the past, made her sound annoyed with him. She wasn’t, though, and it was clear to him rather quickly that she wasn’t. That was the best part of this little friendship; even if he got confused, it was cleared up rather quickly.

His mother still sat on the patio during this time between breakfast and lunch, eyes straying frequently to the shoreline to make sure she could see him. He was perfectly safe, she knew, but letting him have this little freedom had been one of the harder things for her to allow. A natural hoverer when it came to her child, Narcissa knew that she had to give him just a touch of freedom to keep him happy to stray back to her side. The beach was the perfect place for that, and the rather smart French girl Draco had befriended a couple of years before only added to what was already a perfect amount of freedom for her to allow.

Draco didn’t look back as frequently this year, older now, a little more confident in himself and his ability to be alone. He wouldn’t notice this of course, but his mother did.

Either way, Draco spent his mornings on the shoreline with Hermione. They talked about books and about silly conjectures and nothing very personal or serious. They built sand castles and stood in the waves. Hermione wasn’t much for running around and playing, which was fine because Draco was too well-bred for that anyway.

It was Friday and Hermione, rather suddenly, asked Draco about school. She wasn’t, she said, excited about the upcoming school year. She didn’t offer much explanation, but Draco thought he could understand though he had never been to a school before; his parents didn’t believe it was necessary until Hogwarts, but he kept that to himself.

“It would be… not fun to be with so many others who do not know as much as you.” He said. He fumbled for the right words in French, uncertain what worked there and what made sense.

Hermione smiled at him, clearly rather pleased by his words so he felt he had done well. “It is hard to be… close to the other kids.” She admitted, looking out at the water.

Though he had brought it up himself, he wasn’t quite certain he could really believe that Hermione had trouble with other people. She seemed easy enough to get along with, and _he_ always looked forward to seeing her. “Well, it’s ok, next summer you can tell me about it.” And weirdly he _was_ very interested to hear, wished she had talked to him about it before but he wouldn’t have been prepared to talk about it with her at all. Now he can prepare before next summer.

The summer he turned 9 moved in much the same way that the previous summer had. His family was nothing if not predictable when it came to their vacations, and Draco was quite happy to wander within the confines of the schedules provided. He was excited to see Hermione, as he was interested in hearing about school from her, and had read some rather good books he was planning to lend her.

He kept them, the books, on the patio starting the day they arrived. She had mentioned having trouble finding some of the books he had told her about before, so figured this would be the best way to be able to talk about his most recent reads with her. Hermione usually showed up after his birthday, so he knew it would take some time and hadn’t wanted to forget. When she _did_ finally show up he brought her the books and told her as they sat on the shore which ones he wanted to talk about first.

There were 4, and Hermione promised to read them quickly. Draco was pleased, since they were all in English and he had started to worry that maybe he should have gotten them in French for her. Of the 4 his favorite was _A Phoenix’s Journey_ , because his mother said it was a very advanced book for his age. It was about a boy finding a phoenix and helping raise it, all very exciting to consider since they were so rare.

They talked about school, and Hermione was quite open about how it had been. “I’m quite… different, from them, somehow.” She said, and Draco could imagine, because it sounded like she was going to a muggle school. He understood, though, why her parents would send her despite everything: it was, in some circumstances, considered to be a good thing to do for a smart child. His mother had told him about it one time, about how sometimes it helped, but since she was home during the day she was better able to tutor him than most mothers.

Draco found himself feeling very happy his mother had that time for him, but he also felt bad because Hermione’s parents must both have to work all the time if they chose to send her to school. “It will get better.” He said, awkwardly trying to make her feel better. “It’s only two years until… next school.” He said, incapable of finding the word to use for whatever Hogwarts was considered. He knew that being French she wouldn’t go to Hogwarts, but he didn’t know the name of the school she _would_ be going to.

It worked, though, and Hermione had smiled brightly at him, her hair falling out of her messy braid. “You’re right, of course.” She said. Draco liked being right.

Hermione and he spoke of the 4 books and others over the following 2 weeks, all the while under the faux-uninterested gaze of his mother. Narcissa sat on the patio still while they spoke and played in the sand, and kept a sharp eye on what was going on. It wasn’t, she thought, bad at all for Draco to have a little friend like this Hermione; she kept him interested in reading and his studies by being just as driven. It was an advantageous friendship, and Narcissa wouldn’t come between that, even if it seemed that the girl’s family seemed rather comfortable with muggles. She was French though, and what did Narcissa know of French wizarding families?

On her last day, Hermione sighed and laid back on the sand to stare at the wide-open sky. “What’s your favorite thing about summer?” She had asked, and Draco had carefully lain back beside her.

“My birthday, of course.” He said, and Hermione’s lips quirked up but he couldn’t see that.

“Oh? When is it?” She asked. When he told her, she grinned. “I guess that makes you shorter _and_ younger than me!” She said, before rolling away so he couldn’t pinch her.

“I’ll get taller, you’ll see, I’ll be taller than you!” He said, a little pouty, but he wasn’t truly upset; it was just… another thing to compete with her about.

She said goodbye a little while later, and Draco spent the rest of the summer wondering how he could force himself to grow.

On Draco’s 10th birthday he measured himself, and then decided that he wouldn’t bring it up to Hermione when she showed up.

“You’ll grow, darling, just give it a little more time.” His mother said as she pet his hair back. “Come now, let’s open your gifts. And we’re going to the restaurant on the water for dinner, just like you like.” She added, and Draco, still immensely enamored by being the center of all attention, happily put his height out of his mind.

Hermione waited on the beach with her hands behind her back a week or so later, grin bright and hair already falling out of a messy bun that made her look different than the braid had, older maybe. “Happy Birthday!” She said, bright and warm as he came closer, and pulled out a little wrapped gift.

It was a book, rather clearly, but it was also very clearly a very important book to Hermione. She had talked about it before, _Alice in Wonderland_ , and he hadn’t ever read it, for whatever reason, but now… “Oh, thank you.” It was a wholly inadequate sentence, but then, as good as his French had gotten throughout the years, he was still a barely 10-year-old boy living a sheltered life. He hadn’t felt properly _thankful_ before, never had a need to.

Hermione blushed anyway, which Draco found odd. “Come on, tell me what you did for your birthday, then.” She said, trying to change the subject. It worked, of course, because Draco loved being the center of attention.

“... But father said it’s not a good place for brooms.” He said, ending a rather exaggerated story about his birthday gifts. Hermione had been rather focused, listening to him properly and with a type of focus that was very distinctly her.

At the end of his story, however, she laughed. “Ah, you’re quite silly sometimes.” She said, had said it the year before also when he had insisted that he had _also_ met a baby phoenix, just like his favorite book character. It was almost like she didn’t believe in phoenixes and flying broomsticks; but that was ludicrous so he instead thought that she must just find him funny.

That was almost okay, a little worrisome.

They talked, as ever, of books and the things that children on summer holiday in France have to talk about.

“When’s your birthday, then?” Draco asked on her last day. He wasn’t sure why he brought it up, or why he hadn’t asked her the year before. It was important, though, because she would be 11 that year.

Hermione looked up at him from where she was planted in the sand, feet buried. “September.” She said, and then grinned. “I’ll be 11 almost a whole year before you!” She teased, and Draco’s cheeks went warm.

“We’ll still be in the same class year.” He responded, a little clumsily maybe; he didn’t know _grades_ and he didn’t know anything important about school that he could say in French. Hermione would go to the French school, so they wouldn’t have much in common. Maybe she would tell him about it all next year…

“True, but I’ll always be older.” She said with a bright grin. It was a silly thing for him to bristle about, but bristle he always did as if being older but in the same school year was somehow a _win_ for Hermione.

They were, if nothing else, rather encouragingly competitive with each other. Had been since they met years before, and it was part of what made it fun to see her each year.

When she left that day, heading back through the barrier between the muggle and magical parts of the beach, Draco headed up to his mother on the patio. “I want to learn more about the school here.” He said, and Narcissa set her book down, got up, and led him inside so they could go find that information.

On his 11th birthday Draco awoke early, got dressed, and sat at the dining table for breakfast. The ocean was visible outside the window; a beautiful day to turn 11. A beautiful day to watch the Hogwarts standard owl fly past and land at the open window by his father.

The letter was on heavy, cream colored paper, and his name on the front was the most exciting gift he had ever received. He spent the morning reading over the letter with his parents, and then read it again and again for the next couple of weeks.

He would return to it quite a few times through the summer. They left early that year, just a day after Hermione showed up. She was different when she showed up, though Draco wouldn’t say that to her. She looked taller, more _real_.

“How was your birthday?” She asked as they walked down the beach. She seemed like she had things she had to do, places she had to be.

She seemed like she was bursting at the seams with secrets and information and _knowledge_.

Draco shrugged, newly feeling like he should downplay his reactions to things. “It was good, went well.” He said. Then, because he could not help himself and was still new to feeling like he should downplay: “I got my letter, you know, for school.”

Hermione stopped walking so swiftly that Draco _almost_ fell over doing the same. The look on her face was odd, interested and hopeful. “You did?” She asked, and then she seemed to relax as Draco nodded his agreement. “What did you think of the book list?” She asked.

Draco was more than excited to talk about it. He hadn’t memorized the list yet, remembered it more in clusters, courses. Hermione was excited, happy to discuss it with him even as he struggled to think of the proper words in French to describe how excited he was for Transfiguration and Charms and…

Hermione drank it up, as she ever did when they talked about impossible and exciting things.

Draco left France the next day. It was the first time they had left early his entire life, but his mother wanted him to have time at home before the train. He _did_ get to say goodbye to Hermione that morning though, and wish her luck at school. It felt very important that he do that, telling her he was excited to hear about how school went for her the following summer.

Draco left France for that summer, early for the first time ever, and got ready to start at Hogwarts. He visited Diagon Alley with his parents and had a rather one-sided conversation with a boy his age who didn’t seem very bright but he was starting at Hogwarts too so maybe _they_ could be friends eventually. He packed his trunk and read his textbooks and asked his parents about Hogwarts. His parents paraded him around to their _friends_ with children the same age as him in the hopes of him going into Hogwarts with allies. They brought him around to parties with people who had children older than him so he could have connections.

And Draco Malfoy walked onto Platform 9 ¾, on September the first, and as he settled onto the train he heard down the aisle: “I’m Hermione Granger, you are?”

**Author's Note:**

> I hate past tense but man am I trying.
> 
> Next chapter: Hermione's POV


End file.
